Sleep is for the Weary
by S. Jenkins
Summary: Sirius can't sleep. A three part Sirius drabble!fic. PART 1: Hogwarts, years 1 to 4.


Warnings: Swearing, mild angst, mild R/S in later parts.

Disclaimer: Harry P. belongs to Jo and Warner Bros.

Sleep is for the Weary: Part 1 of 3

I.

Sirius can't sleep.

His eyes pop open, wide with excitement and laughter and joy. He's here- here at Hogwarts. He used to dream about this. Whenever Mum's lectures got too boring, or when Bella and Narcissa were tormenting him worse than usual, he would just stare straight ahead, let the storm-gray eyes go blank, and fall into a dream of high spires and open grounds and the sort of freedom he's never dare imagine.

And now he's here.

"Sirius Black, first year Gryffindor," he whispers, the name sounding so perfect on his lips. His mouth curves into a small smile as he thinks of telling his parents that he won't be in Slytherin. Of course Bellatrix must've already written them (he remembers his cousin's glare at the Ceremony as he stumbled to his table- this little upstart, daring to be different- and feels a burst of... joy? Hate? Terror? He isn't sure.), and she's sure to have gotten the letter by now. He lets out a small, bubbling laugh as he imagines his mother's face.

Finally. Free. Sirius rolls onto his back, hearing the creak of bedsprings beneath him. He's already met the other boys in his dormitory, of course- There's Peter Pettigrew, a small boy who had greeted him with a timid smile- nice enough, Sirius thinks. Then there's Remus Lupin, a tall, thin boy with pale brown hair who's already checked out about five books from the library. Sirius isn't sure about him. He seemed nervous throughout the feast, and looked at Sirius like he had grown tentacles when he said hallo. Sirius has resolved to keep an eye on him.

And then there's James Potter. He can already tell that he and James are going to get along fine. A prankster if there ever was one, and self-assured as hell. He greeted Sirius on the train with a smile, an offered hand, and a plea for dungbombs, if he had any. Sirius was about to reply, but Bella dragged him off to the 'pureblood' compartment, where he had to spend the rest of the trip being lectured on not talking to muggle-lovers. But it was okay, because Sirius got to sit with James at the Feast, and learned that they both like the Cannons, and think that Bulgaria has the worst seeker since the old American team, and that both of them want to be Aurors. Sirius thinks that maybe they could be friends. That makes him happy.

Tomorrow is the first day of classes. Sirius feels a thrill go through him as he thinks of his wand, carefully packed in the trunk beneath his bed, and all the spellbooks on the floor, waiting for him to open them, to read them and learn them and become the best wizard in the history of the world. Then he'll be remembered for something other than being a Black.

"I like Hogwarts," he whispers, staring up at the canopy. "I do."

II.

Sirius can't sleep.

How could he? It's midnight, it's December, it's ten below zero, and he just told one of his dorm-mates that he knows he is a werewolf.

It's dead quiet, besides the snores of Peter and the mutters of 'Quidditch...' from James. Remus has been staring at him for the past minute, and Sirius is getting rather impatient. He's been like that forever, not wanting to wait for results. Remus should know that.

"How did you find out?" the boy asks finally, voice strangely calm. Sirius wonders momentarily if there is something wrong with his new friend, but shakes it off. Remus gets impatient, too.

"Do you really want me to list the signs, Remus- I'm sure you've heard them enough," Sirius says, trying to keep his voice as nonchalant as Remus'. The werewolf sags against the bed, face gray.

"Was it really that easy?" he whispers, voice cracking. "Damn... He said this would work.." Sirius wishes he could find out who 'he' was. But he probably won't be able to, as Remus will most likely never talk to him again.

There is silence for a moment, as both of the boys stare at the floor, putting off the issue that they know they won't address. Finally, Remus speaks, voice too small.

"What are you going to do about it?"

Sirius flops down on his own bed. "What do you want me to do, Remus? Tell the school? Stand up in the middle of the Great Hall, shout out that Remus Lupin is a bloody werewolf?" Remus looks pained. "You idiot. I'm not going to tell anyone. We're going to help you."

Remus looks at him for a moment as if he has proclaimed himself the king of England. "...Who's 'we'?"

Sirius gestures lamely around the dormitory. "James, Pete... Me," he adds, as an afterthought. Remus blinks, an expression on his face that Sirius has never seen before.

"How do you propose to help a teenage werewolf get through his transformation with only the help of two other untrained wizards?" the boy asks, the hope that was in his eyes for a moment (a small moment, but Sirius will remember that look forever) gone. He slumps back against the bed-frame, and Sirius feels something inside of him that makes him want to go and crush Remus in a bone-crunching hug.

"I'm not sure, actually," Sirius admits, flushing. "But I know that there's this book in the library that deals with transformations... Maybe we could change into something? I dunno..."

Remus has that skeptical look he is so famous for on his face, and Sirius quickly decides to switch tactics. "Look, Remus, we want to help you. We really do. We're your best friends... Did you honestly think we'll let you do this on your own?" He smiles encouragingly. "We don't want you to be alone."

Remus is silent for a moment. The moonlight pouring through the window makes him look like a fairy-boy, silver hair streaming down into a pure white face, eyes shining golden. Then he smiles, and Sirius smiles back. It's going to work.

It's got to.

III.

Sirius can't sleep.

The letter lays on his night stand, the dark words scrawled across the page. His mother's handwriting is ever-so familiar, as are her words. He's read it so many times in the past hour, it will always be imprinted in his brain.

'_S. Black,'_ it begins, so personal, so loving. '_I have received word from your brother, Regulus,'_ as if he doesn't know his brother's name,_ 'that you have been conversing with werewolves, muggle- lovers, and mudbloods.'_ Sirius feels a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach as he glances at Peter's bed, the small boy sleeping peacefully. Damn her. _'This will stop at once. You are a Black, and you will act like one. It's bad enough that you have been sorted into Gryffindor, but don't stain your name further in the eyes of your ancestors . I trust you will do the right thing. Walburga Black._

It's always been like this, of course. His brother, oh so wonderful Regulus, is always the favored. Of course he doesn't care. (_Mother stares at him, an unknown emotion in her eyes that burns him. It's disgust, he'll learn later, as he comes to know it well in future years.)_ Honestly. _(Father sits behind the desk, and Sirius must crane his neck to look up at him. It's going to be another week without his broom, but that's not the thing that makes Sirius hurt inside, seeing his father stare at him with eyes of disappointment. _Why can't you be perfect? _is the unasked question, and Sirius isn't sure he can answer.)_

Sirius picks up the paper, and stares at it for a moment. It mocks him, somehow- she has condensed all his fears into five sentences. As much as it disgusts him to admit it, Sirius hates the fact that he'll never be the golden boy that Regulus is, the shining heir to the Black fortune, so beloved by his parents and his family.

He stares at that paper, that window into his life. "Shit," he mutters finally. He crosses to the window, decisive as he pulls up the wood, confident as he pulls his wand from his pocket, and as ready as he taps the wood to the letter, muttering "_Incendio" _as he does so.

The flames quickly eat up the paper, and Sirius feels there is a sense of poetic justice as he lets the ashes go, soaring away on the wind, carrying the black words of his family away into the night. Sighing, he leans against the frame, and watches the dark dots dance across the sky, taking his mother's hate away with them.

IV.

Sirius can't sleep.

The rumors from the past year float through his head, the faces from the Daily Prophet flash through his mind. Nameless people, laughing at something off-camera, frowning at the photographer, smiling forcedly as though they were only _just_ putting up with this... All dead.

He glances involuntarily at James, thrashing in his sleep. His mum was killed over the summer holidays. He remembers getting the owl in July. James' handwriting was shaky, his words abrupt. When Sirius came to his house, James wouldn't talk to him for a week. He had been mechanical, bloodshot eyes staring at nothing, seeing shadows of ghosts dancing through the rooms.

It's better now. Mostly. Sometimes he'll be talking, and suddenly break off, biting his lip. It happened once during Transfiguration. He had been giving an explanation on the proper way to transfigure a loon into an umbrella, when all of a sudden he stood up and rushed out of the classroom, looking like he had seen a ghost. McGonagall just stared after him for a moment, sighed, and got on with the lesson.

The letters came more and more frequently. Now it was at least once a week. The downpour of owls streaming through the windows, the early morning dull murmurings of people who would rather be in bed, and then a scream, a sob, a cry of despair. There, three rows down, the kid who sits behind you in Transfiguration, quiet, not really outgoing, friends with those twins in Hufflepuff, likes rabbits, you remember vaguely in the back of your mind. Later you'll wonder why you would think of something like that at a time like this, but now you can only watch, with a perverted sort of fascination as she stares, horror struck at the letter in her hands.

You wonder if it's her mother or father, or maybe a sibling, but then she'll be rushed out by the concerned teachers, and you'll go back to your toast, and continue your conversation on the Quidditch World Cup with your friends. Just another student, not your concern... But you can't help a thrill of uncertainty- Could that be me, next? Will it be Mum or Dad who gets it first?

Sirius banishes these thoughts. It's better not to think about it, he has decided, because if you do it's the only thing you _will_ be able to think of. Besides, he reminds himself, almost bitterly, it's not as though he has any family to be concerned about. Regulus is in Slytherin, now, of course. His little brother, once his best friend, won't acknowledge him in the halls. His parents, of course, like to pretend that he doesn't exist. It's a sort of hobby for them.

He shifts in his bed, trying to get comfortable. Somewhere to the left of him, Remus mutters something in his sleep. James has fallen silent, only occasionally crying out. Peter is unnaturally quiet. Sirius wonders if the small boy is awake, too. He doesn't ask. He finds that sometimes, silence is best.


End file.
